MMXVI

Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
Past the minutes of its face
And the world is like an apple
Spinning silently in space
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind

A fog of warm breath puffs from between my lips, wreathing my head with a fine, white mist. Brittle sun shines at my back and feathery snow falls before me. Snowflakes alight on me like butterflies, melting one by one. If I look closely enough, I can just barely glimpse the fine latticework of their delicate form, right before they crumble. Lovers of the storied metaphor will be glad to know that indeed, none are perfectly alike, though the simplest hexagonal prisms are similar to the point of triviality. A snowflake is most unique in its complexity and the flaws complexity breeds. That snowflakes, no matter how intricate their structure, have unfailing symmetry is a misconception. Truthfully, I prefer it that way. The variety of their imperfection is blessedly infinite. Thin, clear discs scored with an off-center asterism. Lopsided jewels with a thatch of crystalline feathers. Hexagrams encircled with stately crosses, a many-steepled cathedral wherein the north spire sticks out just a bit too far and east much too short. In the tiny grooves of each cross, refracted winter light creates a brief, transparent iridescence.

You savor little details like these when you’re as old as I am. The notion of a big picture is for small minds. Big and small things alike are short-lived, and their worth is all the same to me. Which is to say, it all amounts to everything.

It also amounts to nothing, but nothing will have to wait. Do not fool yourself into thinking I am waiting. I am never the one who waits.

I venture south in a methodical pursuit. Snow gives way to rain and electricity crackles in the clouds above as I close in on my destination. I make my rounds in the midst of a city and a great monolith rises among the many-storied buildings. It's a tall rectangular structure, checkmark-patterned with columns of square, black windows crawling up the sides. This place was once a printing press. Plastic neon-orange construction barriers surround the entire block the abandoned building occupies. The building is marked for demolition, to be replaced with a parking structure. I step over the rain-slicked barriers and place an ear to the damp outer walls. Once, the sound of chattering voices and rumbling printing machines echoed through the halls. Now there’s only the faint creak of an aging building’s aching joints and the howl of wind slipping through the cracks. Somewhere in these ruins is my objective.

I’m never surprised when the hit is put out, but my clients have been especially pushy about this one. They insisted on an expedited hit. A rare demand. Usually they urge me to wait until they’re properly ready. That they’re never ready conveniently eludes them, but as I’ve said, I never wait. I never rush, either. Their sudden insistence in expediency quietly piques my interest, but I keep to my methods. I do the hit my way, and my way always works. Let them complain. I have a schedule to keep and pay to collect.

All things attended to, I am ready now. The building the objective hides in is locked up and closed to the public. Getting through the door wouldn't be much trouble, if I'm honest, but I feel like being contrary. I lay a hand on the walls, feeling the age of the material. It’s older than it looks and it won’t take much to make an entrance. I unsheathe the weapon at my hip.

I take my weapon with me everywhere I go. It is dual-edged, powerful, and nobody else knows how to use it but me. This is for the best, because nobody else would use it properly. Mine is a weapon of both healing and destruction. Right now, I need it for the latter. I brandish its sharper edge against the stone wall and deliver a critical blow. An air-splitting crack echoes through the stormy night. When the dust clears, I see an opening just big enough for me to slip through. Water pools at my feet and the scorched edges of my new entryway hiss and sizzle in protest.

I enter the building, brushing the rubble off my coat. It’s dark in here, and the odor is atrocious. It reeks of stale ink and oil, and also of acrid, burning flesh. A burbling growl echoes in the darkness, an occasional hissing noise glancing off the walls. It’s difficult to determine the source of the noise. My clients warned me about that. The objective likes to use confusion to keep itself from being pinned down. A clever tactic, but it doesn’t slow me down. I’ve seen it all before. I don’t need to untangle the sounds when I have the means to cut the knot. I raise my weapon and it emits a witheringly bright light.

The floor is stark and empty, a row of decaying white columns down the center and industrial grooves on either side. Scant graffiti marks the walls. The harsh light of my weapon casts heavy shadows. Pools of old ink shine like shards of broken mirror. They ripple with the guttural growling.

At the furthest end of the room, I spot the silhouette of a huddled body. I cast my light upon it, revealing the objective to my eyes. Its form is disgusting to behold. Piggish dark eyes and slavering jowls. A wide mouth gapes in a prolonged hiss, exposing a pale pink throat and protruding, uneven teeth. Its limbs are twisted and deformed, yet knotted with dense brawn. Its skin is wrinkled like an elephant's hide and white, lank hair cascades over its brow. I soon realize the source of the burning flesh smell; gouts of smoke are rising from large open wounds on its back and belly. The wounds spit embers that scorch everything they touch. If the floor were anything but metal and concrete, it might start a wildfire. My clients claim precisely that has happened. Just one of many reasons they are eager to see me finish the hit.

The revealing light of my weapon catches its attention and it looks at me. An uncanny smile curves it lips. It tosses back its head and laughs.

Now this is rare. I say rare, because it’s not new. Snowflakes aside, I’ve long run out of new things to see. But this laugh is nonetheless surprising for its undaunted quality. It isn’t every mission I meet one that laughs when it sees me. Most plead for mercy or else sink in despair, knowing I am not to be deterred. Amusement is not a reaction I expect, and I raise a brow in a show of silent interest.

“Welcome to my den,” it says, lolling about on the floor. The floor around it is littered with trash stacked into a crude nest. Scorched papers and old containers of takeout pile up against the columns. Torn-up and wrinkled papers clutter the floor, mostly newspapers and propaganda posters. Some of them, I recognize as publications of this very press.

“Why don’t you take a seat? I would show courtesy to my esteemed guest,” it says. Its voice is deep and gravelly like a crocodile’s growl. Its jaws clench in a wide, mocking rictus. I accept the offer and seat myself on a stepladder leaning beside the nearest column. I delicately set my weapon across my lap, and, chin in hand, I allow it to speak.

“Do you like my handiwork?” it asks. It indicates toward the wall behind it and I raise my light to see a massive canvas stretching from cavernous ceiling to floor. A painting. That’s no surprise. Most of my objectives make one. They like to leave something to be remembered by. This painting isn’t like the usual ones, though. Besides its extraordinary size, the paint is made from condiments and sauces from the leftover takeout and the canvas is cheap and rough, like recycled denim.

The vulgar medium is offset by fine technique. The enormous painting is a soulful depiction of the Four Horsemen of the apocalypse, composed with elegant impressionistic strokes. The horses are cantering about in a green field, an almost giddy expression on the riders’ faces. Death is wearing a garland of day lilies and little else. His entire body is tattooed to resemble a score sheet and he wears the Comedy mask over his bare skull. Pestilence is similarly dressed, and his horse appears to have a case of the measles. In most paintings depicting the Horsemen, Pestilence rides alongside Famine, but instead, he’s instead riding side-by-side with War, the two linking arms in a jovial, brotherly fashion. As usual, War has a sword for a weapon. It’s a bright purple balloon sword. Strangely, if I tilt my head just right, the sword also looks mustard yellow. It is apparently nonetheless a lethal weapon, stained with blood and dripping with gore. In the lower corner of the painting, Famine, depicted as female, is riding her horse side-saddle. The horse is grossly obese and primly groomed. Famine’s right hand daintily holds an empty grape branch above her head. A hardcover book with all the pages torn out is in her other hand.

Perhaps the strangest thing is the inexplicable optical illusions of the painting. It was the color of War’s sword that made me take notice; it takes some concentration and a careful eye for tiny details—no easy task given the chaos of this composition, but I have an eye for detail—but the riders swap features depending on the angle I view the painting from. War has Famine’s face if I view it from the left. Viewed from above, the Comedy mask appears on Pestilence and Death’s face, a skull without eye sockets, is fully exposed. At an up-close angle, a few of Death’s day lilies sprout from Famine’s grape vine. The grassy fields inexplicably turn to sand if I stare at it with my eyes just slightly crossed. No matter how I view the painting, the title of Famine’s book changes ceaselessly, covering every topic and genre I can imagine. It’s impossible to tell which impression of the painting is meant to be the primary one. The more I look at it, the more difficult it is to grasp the focus. The painting is confused; that is to say, the work itself seems unsure of what it is.

“You’re impressed, I can tell,” says the objective, noting what I’m sure was a certain level of admiration in my gaze. I admit, the creativity is notable. I never see anything new, but the objectives do lend a certain personal flair to their work. The abject madness of this one is distinct.

“Surely you can see the unerring devotion I have put into my work,” continues the objective. “I’m an unconventional artist, wouldn’t you say? Your clients, they wanted you to assassinate me faster than usual. They can’t appreciate my brilliance. They’re offended that my work exists. Or maybe they just don’t like where I got the materials to make red.”

I quietly note that even in all the chaos of this painting, there is no red hue anywhere to be seen. The objective notices my skeptical gaze and smugly adds, “Well, it used to be red. But it dries brown. You would know, wouldn’t you? Tell me, how many of my kind have you butchered?”

Against my better judgement, I hold up my fingers to indicate the number. I always have just enough fingers to do so.

It tsks disapprovingly in response. Suddenly, it bursts into a coughing fit. A sickening, phlegmy hacking rattles in its throat. Black smoke plumes heavily from its burning wounds. The lacerations widen, spilling fresh sparks on the cold floor. It writhes and heaves for air. The objective is suffocating. Swiftly, I take the softer edge of my weapon to its throat, freeing its breath. The cut mends itself and the objective catches its breath, clutching at its breast and cursing fluidly.

“Some of them weren’t so bad, you know,” it croaks as it regains composure and wipes a line of saliva from its chin. “They didn’t deserve to die. Your clients even tried to pay you not to kill them. But you did it anyway.”

I nod in agreement. There are many I have dispatched despite mass protest. But objectives are objectives and I don’t protect. Even when I heal, I am, at the very heart of all things, a killer. I’ve killed objectives that didn’t do anything to deserve it, because no matter how good they were, there is always a client to put out the hit. Some of the objectives cried for mercy. Some of them accepted me graciously. Some begged for just a second more to live.

I never showed mercy. It isn’t in my nature.

“You’re quite the sanctimonious one, aren’t you?" the objective sneers. "Saving me now so you can kill me later. Since you're in the business of healing, maybe you might patch up some of these?"

It indicates to a cluster of some of its larger wounds. Since sealing them would mean dampening that noisome odor, I grant its request and slice at its belly. As before, the cut mends itself and the wounds close. It huffs in pain before sagging in relief, scratching at one of the newly-formed scars. I wrinkle my nose in disapproval, knowing that will only open them up again. It just can't leave well enough alone.

"If I had known you were this agreeable, I would have welcomed you with all the pomp this wretched place can offer," it says, stretching in satisfaction. "It was never my idea to live here, you know. This is where I was locked up. This," it holds up an empty takeout box, "is what they fed me. These wounds? They made them. Every one of them. You know who I mean."

I nod again. My clients.

“So you understand. Then listen. I'm not so petty that mere vengeance is my desire. My only pursuit is my art, and I will make it with whatever I can get."

At this, it pulls an unfinished composition from the pile of trash. Instead of canvas, this one has tinfoil stretched on a frame. Even I’m not certain what the “paint” is this time. It smells foul, whatever it is, overpowering even the stench of its burning wounds. This composition is chaotic and abstract. Beautiful in a way, for how utterly incomprehensible it is. And yet, it is deeply profane.

“I spent all my life making one painting. I want to make more. And what do you gain from allowing me that right, but to be all the more heeded and beloved for killing me once I am prepared to die?” It caresses the surface of the unfinished painting. The wet medium smears slightly, the colors mixing into a murky greyish-yellow. "If you let me live, you will have clients begging you to do your job. They’ll bribe you. They’ll pray to you. You’ll be their god. It’s tempting, isn’t it? To be loved for once, for people to want you not to tarry in your work? You, who will outlive them all, to be adored instead of dreaded. All you have to do is let me continue my work in peace.”

I grasp the handle of my weapon and narrow my eyes. It's not the first time I've been given such an offer, and it only goes to prove how little my objectives understand of what I am.

“You’re not afraid, are you?” it asks complacently. “That's to be expected. You've never seen the likes of me before. But it must be wearying, killing the same stock of objectives over and over. Why not let me live and see what more I can do? I’ve impressed you already, have I not?”

I rise to my feet. The objective snarls and bares its jagged teeth threateningly. Its muscles tense under its weathered skin. In response, I quietly brandish my weapon. The sharp edge glints and flares dangerously. The objective hisses again and fire bursts from its raw skin, dripping thick cords of magma. Its nest is set ablaze and an angry orange light ravages the empty building.

It howls. It tosses its head violently. Then, it lunges forward and swipes at my heart. Its muscles are strong and stout, able to crumble bones like unfired clay. But against me, such fearsome might is useless. Its body slips through mine and I am untouched. It falls heavily against the column behind me and moans in pain. The impact jars its wounds violently. Sparks pool below its torn body. It looks up at me, shivering, at last realizing the intangible nature of my form. Fear is in its eyes. It knows now. It is mortal. It can be killed.

I cannot.

“You’re a fool if you kill me!” it whines. “You will never see one like me again! They would never dare to make another one of me! I will haunt your dreams! You will tremble at the memory of me! My painting will hang behind your eyelids and the smell of this room will never leave you! I will-”

Faster than a second, I dispatch the objective with a decisive strike of my weapon. Not out of anger. Not even out of impatience. Simply because then, at that very instant, the deadline was up and I have a schedule to keep.

It falls at my feet, broken and lifeless, and its bulk dissolves into nothing. Only a shadow remains, sprawled on the ground where its body had lain. The shadow will remain for as long as my clients care to maintain it.

It isn’t in my nature to linger, but still, something tempts me to tarry. I stand silently in the objective’s smoldering den, gazing on its fallen silhouette. Something about it rankles me in a way few objectives have. Its hubris leaves a fouler impression than its works. Though the opportunity to discuss matters with it has passed, I break my long silence.

“You think highly of yourself,” I say softly. My voice is thin and carries no echo even in this empty cavern of a building. “Destroyer. Blasphemer. Artist. You think yourself something special and fearsome. A legend that will live on, haunting the darkest places of the imagination for eons. No doubt my clients believe so. Always, they are quick to dread and disavow what they've made. But I know the truth.”

I kneel down and whisper where its ear would be if it had left a body.

“Far worse have come before you, and far worse may follow. To me, you are all nothing.”

I sheathe my weapon and turn to leave the den. The room has gone cold and pitch-black, ashes coating the floor as I make my way out into the midnight streets. A great shout of cheer from my clients fills the air in a joyful song. The storm roils and lightning dances in the clouds. To my right, the moon sets. To my left, the sun rises. And somewhere not very far away, I can hear the birthing cries of my next objective.

The old year has passed away.

That's All Folks!

I could probably wring out a couple more posts if the mood struck me, but strike me the mood has not. I think it's about time we wrap 'er up. Protip to any lost soul who somehow finds this blog in the future: disregard whatever you want about whatever I have to say about art. You decide what you like.

And now I lay this blog to rest.
The last three months, I did my best
to snark on art and say my piece,
the most made of the very least.
Farewell, goodnight, away I go
in peace and rubbish SEO.

-melacritic

Creator: Vas Littlecrow

Hey, let's talk about something other than galleries! Sounds like a plan to me. 

Ordinarily, I hate watermarks, but for some reason, this looks kind of cool.

Today, I'm gonna talk about somebody I've chatted with online intermittently over the past couple years, whom I personally admire. Vas Littlecrow is an artist and fascinating person who has a lot of experience to share on many topics. She has posted insightful articles about art culture, the biz, and her personal stories. My contact with her is embarrassingly infrequent, but I asked if she would mind me writing about her work here and she gave me her blessing. Last I checked, this was a contemporary art blog, so let's ditch the books and meet a real contemporary artist!

The work I want to specifically focus first on is her abstract art, which she creates using digital medium. These are essentially art exercises, as she herself explains: 

"When I am having creative blocks, I love going on nature walks or looking and old travel photos. From these excursions, I create digital abstract paintings based upon what I see. I will often distort shapes and colors, just to see what happens. It's a lot of fun and the results can be strange, dynamic or just plain beautiful." 

See, this is the sort of thing that I wish people talked about more in art academia. There doesn't always need to be a profound message behind every last brushstroke. Sometimes--a lot of the time, really--art can be there just to be uplifting and visually pleasing. In addition to abstract art, she also has some comics and caricatures, which range from fanart to portraits and pinups.

Rosie the Riveter ain't got nothin' on these guns.

That being said, her art can also have some real punch to it. When she does have a message, it really cuts through the bull puckey and gets straight to the heart of the matter. But boy, you don't want to tangle with her more confrontational art if you're of the weak and spineless persuasion, like me.

Pictured: A weak and spineless person.

Along with her individual works, she also writes a couple webcomics, Rasputin Catamite and Rasputin Barxotka. Both are very much NSFW, but if you can handle the mature content, they're well-worth reading. I'd like to point out, when I say mature, I don't mean the moronic "mature" that (dis)graces entirely too much of our comedy cinema, with its flaccid (this is the part where said movies go "hur hur") arsenal of scatological humor and grade-school intellect. I mean, these comics deal with serious social issues from a adult perspective and it does not shy away from the uncomfortable or taboo. Vas' work is similar to the Underground Comix movement in that sense, dealing with topics mainstream writers won't touch, and exploring those topics in a way that's deeply personal and intimate.

And sometimes just straight-up terrifying.

I would, of course, be remiss if I didn't also bring up her blog posts and articles on both Rasputin Catamite and Velvet Rasputin. Being experienced as she is with webcomics, she often writes about the struggles of being an indie creator and outlining important things newbies need to know. These topics include fan art, dealing with criticism, her own inspirations and influences, how she views aesthetics in comics, general advice and how-to material, and a host of other subject matter. And on occasion, she can also be really freakin' funny.

There's a whole lot more I could say about her work, but she says it better herself. If you aren't afraid of a little raw honesty and ferocity, read her comics and blog posts when you get the chance. And if you're weak and spineless--again, like me--she has a treasure trove of beautiful abstract works on DeviantArt. So whatever flavor you like, give it a try. She'll challenge you if you let her, but you can always just sit back and enjoy her expressions of pure aesthetic if you're not up for the challenge.

Wuss.

Totally Not Biased At All Final Rating: S'mores

The Crocker Art Museum

For my last (mandatory) visit for this blog, I took a little trip to the Crocker Art Museum. To save a little money, I went during the third Sunday of the month, when it's free. Well, sort of. They still ask for a donation at your discretion, so I threw a couple bucks into the box because I'm not a complete tool. At any rate, I've been here before and there's a little matter I'd like to point out from the get-go.

Oh, that's always a good sign.

See this? I hate this. The other places I went to couldn't care less how many videos or pictures I took, so what's up with the photography prohibition? And if you think I'm exaggerating, case in point, I got caught taking this photo and a docent got on my case, following me halfway out the hall to make sure I didn't do it again. Real welcoming atmosphere you've got there.

That being said, I totally took photos and one of my famous high-quality videos when nobody was looking anyway because I'm an art paparazzi-ninja who lives on the edge.

Flora by Joan Brown

Figure With Striped Leg by Nathan Oliveira

Portrait of a Young Woman by Ethel Pearce Nerger

Haven by Allen Houser (Haozous)

The museum had a Toulouse Lautrec exhibit when I visited--which was excellent, but sadly consisted only of lithographs instead of the originals--which is part of the reason I was able to get these pictures. This area of the museum was a ghost town since it was Free Day and a famous artist was being featured elsewhere. I decided to focus on some figurative art, a style I'm generally drawn to anyway, since most of the art I've practiced is figurative in some form or another. The art in these rooms use bold strokes and thick layers of paint. Really thick layers. Some of them look like somebody went a little nuts trying to stucco a wall, while others have the texture and depth of a sandbox full of playground woodchips. Honestly, though, I like the tangible effect that comes from such thick paint, and the bright colors capture the eyes immediately. For those wondering, you can find these paintings on the third floor and if you like this type of art, I definitely recommend getting a good look at them up-close. As for the sculpture, I included it for the sake a variety, but there was something about the closeness of the faces and compact composition that attracted me to it. It's a very peacful, cozy piece.

I thought I was done taking pictures, but then I found this absurd thing.

I'm probably gonna get arrested when they see I did this. Maybe I'll share a cell with that lady in San Francisco.

It made me laugh when I saw it and applaud the artist when I walked behind it. I'm honestly impressed by the convincing nature of this painting. I'm not including it for any other reason than I simply appreciate it.

At any rate, after that, I visited my favorite part of the museum, the older half of the building. That's where they keep a lot of the traditional paintings and sculptures, the museum artifacts, and a whole room devoted to nothing but fine china. And of course, there's also the wonderful historical architecture, which I couldn't take a picture of on account of too many eyes. As much as I like contemporary art, it's a bit of a gamble. Sometimes you love it, sometimes you hate it. I've never seen traditional art I didn't at least find pleasant, however, and I wasn't about to pass up taking time for those too.

It was nice to see all my favorites again, but I still find myself pretty annoyed with their "no-cameras" nonsense. It's especially grating after visiting so many other galleries aside from this one, many of which not only allow cameras, but seem to encourage them. The Crocker has some great art, but it's not the most hospitable place I've been to. They could stand to loosen up a bit.

Final rating: White Chocolate.

Just because I'd visit again doesn't mean you're not stuffy.

Of course, while I've done all the visits I have to do, I'm not quite done here. I still have one or two things I want to talk about in this blog before I close shop and let it gather cyber-dust, but this time, I'll be talking about the kind of art I personally like.

Why? Because I can.

Michael Schwager: Don't Hide the Madness, Bay Area Art in the 1950s and '60s

 Let me get this out of the way, right now. I don't enjoy lectures. I already have to go to lectures nearly every day of the week, so attending a lecture outside of class on my own time is not my idea of fun. Plus, it takes me 30-40 minutes both ways to get to college, so when I have to go to a mandatory lecture series on a Saturday all the way on campus, you can bet real money I'll be simmering in my seat.

Why do I say all this, you ask? Well, besides the fact that I like to complain, I have to admit that while I hated being there, I did not hate the speaker. I didn't even hate what he had to say. In fact...I kind of liked it, which is why I bring up my hostility-by-default in the first place. If a speaker can win over somebody who's already in a bad mood, that says a lot more about their ability than a speaker who can impress an already interested crowd.

So let's meet the speaker, shall we?

"The name's Schwager. Mike Schwager."

Michael Schwager was the keynote speaker for the 11th Annual Art History Symposium for Sacramento State, titled, "Here as Everywhere: Art of the Sixties and Seventies in Northern California". While the series was largely focused on, as the title indicates, '60s and '70s art, mostly around the Bay Area, Schwager focused on elements of '50s art that contribute to the '60s and onward. One interesting trend he revealed is a prevalent message in '50s art that carried over to later ideals.

What, oh what, could that message be?

Hmm...

It is a mystery.

 So what could have possibly contributed to this message of seeking peace in the '50s, I wonder?

Oh right. War. Yeah, that'll do it.

And why don't most people seem to know about tha--oh right. Because this is what people imagine when they think about the '50s. Huh.

It's nice to know even back then, people spent hours in front of a screen. The more things change...

 And that's the problem with how a lot of people see history. We like to divide things into neat little decades, but reality doesn't work that way. The difference between 1959 and 1960 wasn't some huge leap, it was a gradual change building on what came before. We get a popular image of the '50s being idyllic, when the reality is there was just as much tension as there was in later decades, if not more. This lecture took a rusty chainsaw to our inaccurate notions of history and showed the progression of ideas we link to later decades. But as we can see, sometimes things aren't as new as we would like to believe. Even I've fallen prey to that. I had no idea the peace sign was made in 1958--and I bet you didn't either. Seeing this lecture made me appreciate the subtle progress that comes with time and how everything we see in contemporary art is merely the culmination of ideas. Our art today is a product of history. That's actually a really profound thing to realize, isn't it? And that's why I like this lecture. It's realistic. It's challenging.

It's inspiring.

 As an interesting side note, he also showed some Bay Area Figurative art, which I'll place here.

Bay Area Figurative is known for expressive figures...

...focusing on building form through shapes and lighting...

...and the subject is typically the human form.

 I also took the time to ask him a direct question, and this time, since I didn't forget to charge my camera like a complete moron, I got the answer on tape memory card.

Just...ignore the first several seconds, okay? I'm not a video editor, for crying out loud.

I may not have liked being there, but I liked hearing what this speaker had to say. I give him a lot of credit for being able to hold my interest despite my annoyance at the entire production. I'm rating this lecture A King-Sized Bar on Halloween. I may not have expected Good, but I think what I got was pretty Awesome.

San Francisco or Bust? Yeah, I'll go with bust, please.

In the spirit of fairness, I decided to split up my review of the gallery and my experiences during this visit into different posts. This is mostly because if I did not, there's a very good chance I might make said gallery sound really bad, when it was mostly okay. I surely wouldn't want to use my enormous irrelevance clout as an anonymous blogger to ruin the good name of the Yerba Buena, but even so, the details of the trip had some, shall we say, effects on the visit, which I will now detail here.

If you're frightened and/or squeamish about one angry blogger's indignant ranting, feel free to bail now and watch this soothing video of the ocean on the San Francisco beach instead.

Since I have a truly horrible sense of direction and finding parking in the big city is a form of torture I wouldn't wish on my second-worst enemy (my worst enemy, however, can feel free to contend with it), I decided not to take this trip alone. I went with my whole family. Accounting for traffic, the trip is about two hours both ways and takes us through a toll road, which is always a fun time. Still, this is nothing new when it comes to visiting the Bay Area, so it's no big deal.

And then it got worse. Going to San Francisco is one thing and parking there another matter entirely, but it's doable with some patience. Parking a full-sized van equipped to hold a wheelchair in San Francisco, however, pretty much requires a blood pact with a dark wizard. Or, you know, forty dollars per hour.

I wish I was exaggerating about that last part. See, we're not exactly denizens of the area, so we don't know where the parking near the Yerba Buena is and parking on the street wasn't an option for obvious reasons. Normally, you'd drive around until you find something, but good luck doing that in a huge tugboat of a van with impatient motorists trying to inch up under your chassis at every turn. We ended up at what we thought was a parking garage, but was actually a hotel. They charged us $40 to park there and would have charged double that for two hours.

The parking spot we paid $40 for. Wunderbar.

So if you were wondering why I didn't stay at the Yerba Buena long, there you go. My family didn't even go inside the gallery with me, except for my brother, because we were tapped out from the parking and toll roads. Oh, and the guides were nice enough to tell us about cheaper parking on Fifth and Mission, which would have been useful to know if it weren't for the fact that the hotel was going to charge us the entire hours' worth no matter what.

Just when we thought this trip couldn't have been more of a disappointment, we got to experience a lovely brush with the local law enforcement while hurrying back to Chateau le Larcin. A cop driving a motorcycle cut us off--on the sidewalk. He seriously drove onto the sidewalk to arrest somebody on the street. And said person he was arresting was getting dragged to the ground as we gingerly slunk away. I don't know about you, but my day just isn't complete without watching somebody get arrested while I'm wheeling my brother around with my family in a city I barely know.

Because I'm not a psychopath, I didn't take a picture, so this is the next best thing.

So in the end, we spent less than an hour in San Francisco and lost at least a hundred bucks on the fees and gas (they don't exactly make wheelchair vans fuel-efficient). It was by far the worst trip I've taken down there, not at all helped by the fact that we went to an area we didn't know and pretty much got fleeced for all we're worth. Granted, we've gone to museums as a family before--the de Young Museum even has a decent parking area that's fairly easy to find. I think it's safe to say, though, that we won't be revisiting the Yerba Buena again anytime soon. The trip as a whole gets a solid Baking Chocolate rating.

Let's just say it left a bad taste in our mouths.

But I can be fair. It's not the gallery's fault this trip from my darkest nightmares turned out this way. One thing is for certain though--no matter what they say about San Francisco being cultured and having a rich artistic heritage, it's still the big city. First rule about the big city: don't expect them to do you any favors.

Yerba Buena Center for the Arts

San Francisco.

Just the name evokes a lot of ideas and stereotypes related to the city, doesn't it? It's just one of those things that comes with being a major city. I could waste everyone's time listing the things San Francisco is known for, but since this is an art blog, I think we can skip the pretense and get on with it, don't you? Long story short, I visited the city to see the Yerba Buena. The visit was...uh, we'll save that for another post. Let's just focus on the gallery itself.

The show going on while I visited was The Way Things Go, a collection of art showing cultural exchange through trade goods and agriculture. Although the artistic mediums varied wildly--ranging from videos to a giant bread mermaid, the theme was consistent through most of the pieces.

You thought I was kidding about that bread mermaid? Nope.

Much of the art had a food theme--seeds, fruits and vegetables, and other natural foods--but there were other goods, such as pottery, textiles, and writing samples. The emphasis of the show was to trace the movement of goods and culture through the colonial era through a post-colonial lens. Migration, culture, and anthropological insight on how life has developed and mingled on a global scale was reflected through these multimedia pieces. Here are a few displays I found to be especially interesting.

San Francisco de Goya: A Better Bitter by The National Bitter Melon Council

Nam Prik Zauguna by Pratchaya Phinthong

Porcelain Pirates by The Propeller Group

Nacireman Field: A Topography of Inventions by Michael Arcega

Golden Teardrop by Arin Rungjang

On a more personal note, that adorable little guy you see next to the piece from the National Bitter Melon Council (there's a thing I would have never guessed would actually be a thing) is my youngest brother. He's in a wheelchair and taking him places can be a challenge, but the gallery was very kind to him and us. They let me take him in for free, so while I was taking him for a ride, I decided to shoot some video of us going through the Wake in Guangzhou: The History of the Earth installation by Maria Thereza. Since his eyesight isn't so good, this was probably his favorite part of the show, due to the sounds from the videos playing at the center of the installation.

Unfortunately, I didn't get the chance to look around for very long, partly because I was supervising my brother and partly because...well, let's just say I was on a time crunch. More on that next time. As for the Yerba Buena, although I liked the show okay, I've been to this city before and I can tell you, it just doesn't compare to the MoMA or de Young Museum. If you're going to go all the way to San Francisco, you'd better make sure you see the best the city has, and the Yerba Buena isn't it.

Still, I'll give them extra points for being so accommodating for my brother. Believe me, decent accommodation for the disabled can be hard to come by in the big city. I'm rating this gallery Novelty M&Ms.

As for the city itself...well, I'm saving that for another post. Stay tuned.